


As Easy as Pie

by devilsduplicity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-25
Updated: 2010-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsduplicity/pseuds/devilsduplicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches are bad. Witches that make you live through every trope known to fandom are worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Easy as Pie

**Title:** As Easy as Pie  
 **Author:** [](http://devilsduplicity.livejournal.com/profile)[**devilsduplicity**](http://devilsduplicity.livejournal.com/)  
 **Recipient:** [](http://phar-ahkmenrah.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://phar-ahkmenrah.livejournal.com/)**phar_ahkmenrah**  
 **Pairing:** Dean/Castiel  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Warnings:** Language, sexuality, fluff, crack, and more clichés than you can shake a stick at.  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Word Count:** ~5,000  
 **Notes/Prompt(s):** This fic focuses more on the prompt _CRACK FIC! Have fun, just make me laugh._ with a conglomeration of other elements, including, _lots of Destiel loving/fluff/romancing_ , _lots of crack or whump!Castiel_ , _AU fics_ , and _Smoker!Castiel_. There were a lot of preferences here that I simply couldn't resist throwing into a giant stew of WTF. Note: There is no pie in this story. I apologize in advance.

 **Summary:** _Witches are bad. Witches that make you live through every trope known to fandom are worse._

  
**As Easy as Pie**

 

One day, Dean woke up gay.

Pay attention now, because this is important to the plot.

Dean knew this intrinsically because when he opened his eyes, the low opacity of bright red font was flashing in front of everything he looked at.

 **WOKE UP GAY** , it said in big, bold lettering.

Dean groaned, rubbed his head, then rolled off the side of the bed and retreated to the bathroom to take a piss. If he shot out rainbows and sparkles, he swore he was going to kill himself.

Fortunately, everything was in working order. The text obscuring his vision was slowly fading away, the visual aspect of it not so much dissipating as redistributing. It shifted from the front of his sight to the back of his mind; a constant reminder of what the day had in store for him.

Yesterday, it had been **SPEECH DEPRIVED** , and the day before that, it had been **EVERYONE THINKS WE'RE DOING IT**. He'd been at it for a week now, and still the cursed tropes kept coming.

In short, Dean hated witches.

Him and Sam had been out on a routine hunt when a group of little snot-nosed teenagers dabbling in the otherworldly shot a spell his way and bound him to -- wouldn't you know it? -- _clichés_. Bobby had taken a look at him, reassured him that it was basically harmless, and that the spell itself worked in a list format. One trope per day, no more, no less. Once it ran its course, everything would be set back to normal.

Dean could've dealt with that, except some of the things flashing before his eyes were too traumatizing to even think about, let alone be forced to perform. The **HIGH SCHOOL AU** cliché had tipped him over the edge. He'd not only woken up back in high school, he'd had to suffer through seeing all of his allies and mortal enemies in a whole new, acne-induced light. Ever since then, he'd been huddling out in his own separate motel room. Sammy was a couple rooms down, busying himself with research while Dean cleansed his body from the mental, physical, and sometimes world-bending terrors that tried to find him each and every night.

Unfortunately, each and every night they only seemed to get worse.

Living in a world of clichés, Dean was completely unsurprised when he exited the bathroom to find himself standing face-to-face with _the hottest goddamned angel he'd ever had the pleasure of eye-fucking, **goddamned**_.

…

… Shit.

Apparently, Dean's dick had turned gay, and wasn't against voicing its opinion in the loudest, brashest way possible.

"Cas," he said tightly, nodded once, then pushed past the angel and busied himself with something inside of his duffel bag. Because, you know. Sawed-offs and dirty clothes were infinitely more interesting than the angel he desperately wanted to bang.

A rush of feathers greeted his ears, and Cas was standing by his side in the blink of an eye.

"Dean," he said.

Dean nearly melted.

 _Control yourself, Winchester,_ Dean mentally berated. He _was not gay_ , no matter how insistently the red text flashing in the back of his mind said otherwise.

"Could ya' come back another time, Cas?" he asked, fumbling with the gun in his hands. "I'm kinda--" _resisting the urge to rip off your pants_ "-- busy right now."

God _fuck_ , Dean hated witches.

"No," was the stiff reply, and of course. _Of course_ it couldn't wait until Dean was sexually secure enough to handle the day. That would've added another tick to the 'God Loves Me' scorecard, and we just couldn't have that, now could we? No, if that particular scorecard breached a whopping _one_ , something would be Terribly Wrong with the world -- capitalization included.

"Right," was his dry-as-the-desert response.

Castiel was an angel. He basically couldn't tell the difference between drowning in sand or drowning in water, so the tone was lost on him.

Dean busied his hands with anything he could find just to take his mind off the intense proximity of the other man in the room. It wasn't like he'd not gotten _used_ to the complete lack of personal space, it was just this day-- This day had crawled out of the fiery depths of Satan's _anus_ and it was absolutely, irrefutably out to rape Dean Winchester the second his back was turned.

"Dean," came that low, intimate tone of voice again, and Dean just about threw the television set onto the floor just so he could have something to fix.

"Cas, seriously. Today _isn't good_."

His hands were shaking. He knew it was all an effect of the spell, but the bodily reactions were starting to overtake his normal brain functions. It was like his synapses were firing in completely new, completely homosexual ways, and the only way he knew how to react to that was to freak the fuck out.

Something must have altered in his presence. He knew how oblivious Castiel could be when it came to sarcasm, but that didn't mean the angel was sympathetically unresponsive.

Voice confused him, but he could _feel_ emotion. And right then, Dean was basically hyperventilating he was trying so hard to hold in the foreign feelings overriding his brain.

Still, that didn't mean that Cas was going to leave him alone.

"Dean."

"Cas, could you just--"

"Dean, what's wrong?"

" _I'm gay_."

Dean clamped his hands over his mouth at that unnecessarily shouted declaration. In his mind's eye, he could see the walls reverberating with the admittance.

What had this turned into? A 'coming out' trope?

The angel tipped his head to the side and furrowed his brows.

"I'm glad you're happy," he said slowly, deliberately, then, "but we have many things to discuss."

Dean couldn't believe it. He outright _could not believe it_.

"Tomorrow," he said quickly, just a rush of breath, then he turned on his heel and locked himself in the bathroom.

Which would have been a useless gesture, really, had Castiel decided to intrude on his privacy, but after several minutes passed, he peeked his head out the door and found that the angel had left.

Good.

Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be quite so detrimental to his heterosexuality.  
   
   


**~*~*~*~**

  
   
   
The next day, Dean woke up dead.

Well, _in Heaven_ , but it was basically the same thing.

He took a moment to get his head on straight, then lifted up from the high contrast meadow he'd been laying in -- seriously, he couldn't _make this shit up_ \-- and rolled his shoulders to relieve them of their tension. He blinked away the blurriness fogging his vision, then nearly pulled something by flailing when a pair of soft, warm hands danced along his shoulder blades.

The hands jerked back the second he jerked forward, and, twisting around, Dean saw a very blue-eyed, wide-eyed angel staring back at him.

"What's wrong?" Cas asked, but Dean was too busy soaking up the fact that the other man had ditched the stocky trench coat to formulate a proper reply.

The silence seemed to propel the angel forward, and, dressed in nothing but a light blue button-down and a pair of slacks, Castile maneuvered around Dean until he was sitting cross-legged behind the mortal. His hands tickled up Dean's back once again, making the hunter tense, tighten.

"Relax," Cas breathed against the others ear, and started up a kneading motion so soothing Dean was, quite, honestly, taken aback. He had no choice _but_ to follow the other's command, hesitantly relaxing his tense muscles until some sort of progress could be made.

It was around that time the blinking text made itself known.

Dean could see it behind his eyelids; a silent, taunting predator crouching in the dark -- no longer red, now simply black.

 **FIRST TIME**.

There was a moment where Dean was blissfully naive. Granted, the moment didn't last very long, but it had existed, if but briefly.

Once the information settled firmly into his brain, Dean catapulted himself forward and nearly face planted in the dirt.

He did a little number to straighten himself out, then whirled around and faced the confused angel staring up at him from his cross-legged position on the ground.

"Why are we here?" Dean asked frantically, his breath coming in short little gasps.

Castiel, though it was obvious he badly wanted to confront Dean about this odd behavior, decided it would be best to go ahead and answer the human.

"You called it our 'honeymoon,'" he said slowly, as if pacing himself would force it to make more sense.

Heaven. The best fucking vacation spot known to man.

" _Where_ are we?" Dean asked next, spreading his arms in a nice, wide arch.

"The Garden," Castiel said seriously, then unfurled his limbs and lifted up, a somber, somewhat concerned look on his face. "Are you alright, Dean?"

"Peachy," was the flippant reply.

Castiel reached forward, gripped Dean by his forearms.

"Tell me," he said, and Dean was mesmerized by the voice, by the disquieted nature of the angel holding him.

"I--" he started, then cleared his throat, trying in vain to tug out of a grip emphatically inhuman. "I don't remember this. This doesn't _exist_."

Castiel blinked, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then closed it.

It was all an act of sorcery, of course. The sheer reality that surrounded him was disconcerting -- everything _felt_ real -- but the simple memory of who he was, what he did, what had _happened_ was what kept him pushing forward, kept him going. It would've been easy to forget what was reality and what was fabricated. The magic compelled him to think and react in all sorts of interesting, terrifyingly different ways, but Dean, beneath it all, was still _Dean_.

And he didn't like Castiel. Not in _that_ way.

Still, when Cas leaned forward and used his grip to hold Dean in place, Dean was hard pressed to find the will to even _try_ to struggle. Instead, he found himself freezing to the spot, heart thudding in his chest, the ice of disapproval melting away when unbearably gentle lips pressed lightly to his own. He could feel the scruff, the hesitancy, the silent entreaty to deepen the contact; the slide of a tongue against his mouth, the curling of fingers in the arms of his jacket. He could sense the swell of _angel_ reaching out to cradle him in a manner otherworldly. He could taste the ozone, the musk, every flavor of _masculine_ , of _soft_. He could feel the way his body tipped forward when those lips started to pull away, could feel the quiet protest at the loss of contact.

"Was that real?" Castiel asked, and then his hands slid up Dean's arms, around his throat, along his jaw, and cupped his face gently between unwavering palms.

Dean swallowed thickly, nodded once.

"Yeah."

"Good."

It happened again, then once more after that, and once the kisses were all depleted, the angel slid his arms around Dean's neck and pulled the hunter forward, down, until they were fused together in a loving embrace.

The world started to fade away as soon as he slid his arms around Castiel's waist, and in a moment of surprised clarity, Dean realized two things.

One, the damned cliché had been first _kisses_ , not first--

Yeah. He was just gonna leave it at that.

Two, the spell had started to dissipate the second he'd completed the "task", so to speak. Which meant, in theory, that he didn't have to wait an entire day to muddle through a trope -- he could get it over with as soon as he, well, _got it over with_.

He didn't like the think about the third thing that came to mind, because the thought of actually _liking_ Castiel's kisses was way too lovey-dovey for him to handle.  
   
   


**~*~*~*~**

  
   
   
"It's a hundred dollar flat rate. Anything weird, and it'll cost you."

Unlike before, when Dean had woken to consciousness with what could be described as a gentle shake, this time Dean was made aware by what amounted to a punch in the face.

"What?" he asked groggily, then breathed in, then coughed when a haze of smoke was blown in his direction.

"Boring you already?" came a wry, somewhat hollow voice.

More specifically, the wry, somewhat hollow voice of someone Dean would have given his right arm to have never heard again.

When his vision came careening back, Dean found himself staring at the familiar, stinging resemblance of a previously strung out, completely wasted hippy-Cas.

By the blue italicized _**PROSTITUTION**_ curving along the other's forehead, Dean could tell the circumstances had changed a bit.

"What?" Dean asked again, at a complete loss for words, because in that moment he became suddenly aware of the firm grip Castiel had on the bulge in his pants, and the fact that they were standing in a dirty alleyway in the middle of the night, and also tha-- _holyshit he was hard_.

Cas rolled his eyes, gave the other a look that said, _one too many tokes tonight, huh?_ then repeated himself.

"Blowjobs, a straight Benjamin." A teasing caress to Dean's hardon. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet?"

Dean swallowed, finding it very difficult to reply.

"A hundred bucks for a blowjob?" he asked, and though he'd tried to make it out as incredulous, the words fell flat and bland and nervous.

Castiel smirked the kind of smirk that tended to dematerialize pants, then lifted up his right hand and took a draw on the cigarette curved gently between his ring and middle fingers. He blew it out to the side, sparing Dean another coughing fit, then pressed forward suddenly until his entire body was pushed flush up against the wary hunter's, effectively trapping him against the alley wall. For a moment, it looked like he was going to kiss Dean -- all rough and violent, this time, as opposed to aching and gentle from before -- but instead he reached forward and snuffed out his cigarette on the dirty mortar right beside Dean's head.

"It's a hundred dollar mouth," Castiel remarked, then slid straight down until he was kneeling in front of the other man.

Dean wanted to protest, but for some reason he'd completely lost the ability to speak.

What followed was so blatantly pornographic and unholy, it would haunt Dean's wet dreams until the end of _forever_.

Unfortunately, there was no fade to black.  
   
   


**~*~*~*~**

  
   
   
It didn't take long for Dean to realize that the universe as he knew it was trying very hard to get him into Castiel's pants.

First kisses were one thing. Prostitution, another.

But **MAGICAL HEALING COCK**? _Really?_

"Who the fuck comes _up_ with this stuff?" Dean snarled, raising his hands in resignation.

"It seems to be some sort of binding sigil," Sam said, ignoring Dean's little outburst. "I… don't know how it works, but it looks like he'll keep bleeding out until we can get it off of him."

Sam was kneeling beside a broken and bloodied Castiel, whose glassy eyes were blinking blindly up at the warehouse ceiling.

The sheer amount of ridiculous scenery change had Dean reeling.

The older Winchester went to kneel beside his brother, shaking his head in a very slow, very _what the fuck is God punishing me for?_ manner.

"Any ideas?" Sam said, and the very real concern on his face had Dean's heart clenching.

Dean had two options here.

He could let clichéd wibble!Sammy sway his opinion and seduce him into healing Cas immediately with his salve-producing dick, _or_ he could assert the fact that this was all a curse, clamp his hands over his ears, and proceed to hum the most obnoxious song he could think up in the loudest decibel possible.

And then Sam had to go and give him his patented puppy-dog look, and Dean knew it was all over for him.

Already he could feel the excruciatingly real stirrings of alternate emotions swelling inside his chest.

He didn't just _have_ to do this. He wanted to.

"Yeah," Dean said, rubbing a hand across his face. "I've got an idea."

It was in that moment that reality time-warped him to a private, run-down motel room, because apparently the tropes curse was a horny, premature teenager just itching to become a sacrilegious voyeur.

Castiel was laying spread-eagle on the bed, his face twisted into a mask of cliché-ridden pain.

Hell, the sheer amount of times Dean had _thought_ the word "cliché" since the beginning of this whole horrendous ordeal was clichéd in and of itself.

Back to writhing angels.

Cas was currently on the bed looking for all the world like someone had driven a sigil-infested stake straight through his heart, probably because someone _had_ driven a sigil-infested stake straight through his heart, and the only way Dean knew how to fix it was to enlist the help of his magical angel-healing cock, as the tropes insisted.

He was having a hard time reconciling the jumps in character he'd made the past several days. From forcibly gay, to quietly kissable, to blatantly carnal, and now sexually righteous?

Dean. Fucking. _Hated_. Witches.

But you know what? He was pretty fond of Cas, and seeing his awkward angel buddy slowly losing his ability to breathe sparked all sorts of protective thoughts inside of him. He hated to see Cas like this -- _hated_ it. Castiel was a freakin' _angel_ , and anytime he was forced to react to worldly situations in a manner anything less, it always pushed Dean one step closer towards a perilous precipice he wasn't quite ready to face.

He didn't want to see Cas hurt, and if-- if _this_ was what it took to stop the bleeding and stave the overwhelming sense of helplessness, then so be it.

"Cas," Dean said, inching closer to the bed, wary of what he might find.

Castiel was just barely lucid enough to register the words.

"Yes?" he asked, but the single syllable was rusty and tinged with tightness.

"Cas, I… know how to fix you," Dean began, then added hastily, "but you've gotta trust me, okay? Do you trust me?"

The single, instantaneous nod clenched something in Dean's heart.

"Okay," the hunter said, then sighed and said it again, "okay."

He edged closer, pressed his knee to the mattress and let it dip with his weight.

Castiel winced at the smallest provocation of movement.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled, then set his trembling fingers to the task of unbuttoning Castiel's bloody undershirt and pulled his hands away when Castiel moaned.

" _Sorry_ ," he said again, then kicked himself in the back of the head, because if he apologized for every little tick of pain the angel felt, he wouldn't be getting anywhere anytime soon.

Dean had never done the whole gay sex thing before, but he figured it was basically the same thing as heterosexual sex, just with a few logistical changes.

At least he didn't have to make a fool out of himself trying to unclasp the damned hooks on a bra.

Castiel was already out of his trench coat and suit jacket. Sam had done the honors of stripping down those essential items from the angel the second he'd realized Castiel had lost the ability to heal. Now, it was up to Dean to finish the job.

" _Dammit_ ," he breathed under his breath when the first button slipped away and his fingertips fell against smooth, unblemished flesh.

Castiel shuddered just as Dean shuddered, because it was pretty strange to think that no one had ever touched the angel like that before. That Dean was his first.

And don't get him wrong; Dean had popped a number of cherries in his time. It was just different because, well, it was _Cas_. An angel. Something _holy_.

Dean didn't want to mess that up.

In the long run, though, he figured tarnishing a table cloth was a lot better than throwing the whole damned thing in the fire.

Once the shirt was undone and pushed against Castiel's shoulders, Dean slid as smoothly down the other man's body as he could manage, trying very hard not to cause any sudden, jarring movements. Cas, the lucky bastard, was too far out of it to really notice what was going on, but even _he_ had the good sense to stiffen his limbs the second Dean started fumbling with the button of Cas' pants.

"Dean," came the shaky question-statement.

"Trust me."

"De--"

" _Trust me_ ," Dean reiterated, then popped the button, unzipped the fly, and found out, first hand, that Cas wasn't as reluctant as he tried to put on.

 _Oh my god_ , Dean thought, no so much because he was now facing the raging hardon of a virgin angel, but because the mere sight had him aroused far more than he thought was possible.

"Just… calm down, Cas, okay? Just calm down."

The word were more for his benefit than the angel's.

Castiel nodded regardless, swallowed thickly, then let his head fall back against the pillows as each limb trembled in anticipation.

And then the world started fading to black.

And the weird part -- the _weird_ part? -- was that Dean started _raging_ at how utterly unfair it was for the universe to cockblock him so thoroughly.  
   
   


**~*~*~*~**

  
   
   
Which, in the end, he realized was completely untrue.

The next time he woke up, Castiel's back was cradled to his chest, his arms were wrapped snugly around the angel's waist, and the slight shuffle of movement told him that they were about to wake up.

Oh, and they were both naked.

Dean's arousal fit snugly along Castiel's backside, and the sheer overwhelming sensation of skin-on-skin had Dean achingly hard quicker than he could've imagined.

The soft glow of pale gray etched itself onto every surface he looked at.

 **HYPOTHERMIA** , it read, and Dean couldn't help but snort.

Nah, the universe wasn't a vindictive little bitch. It was just an inbred 12-year-old with ADHD.

It was then that the cold slammed into him like a physical weight, proving once again that Jack Frost was a kinky bastard with a fetish for asphyxiation.

He coughed into his own shoulder, then squirmed forward until every inch of exposed skin was in some way touching Castiel's body. They were both laying in a sparsely covered bed, sharing a single, flimsy sheet, and huddling in what warmth their combined body heats could provide.

Which wasn't damned much, when it came right down to it.

When Dean's teeth began to chatter, Castiel stirred just enough to turn around in the hunter's grip. He lifted his hands and cupped the other's face between warm palms.

"Cold?" he asked, and Dean would have quirked an eyebrow if not for fear of it freezing that way.

Castiel smiled, and even _that_ was warm, which just basically defied the laws of physics, but you know what? Dean was tired of questioning it.

"Here," Cas said, then reached down to stroke Dean's not-so-surprising erection.

Dean was about ready to crawl out of his skin with arousal, so even this light touch was enough to send shudders throughout his whole body. His toes curled and he slid his hands from Castiel's back to Castiel's waist.

The angel made a little noise of approval, then rolled his hips forward until Dean was made fully aware that he was enjoying the proceedings very much.

The contact was _electric_. Every trace of cold was banished with the new, warm flood of sensation flowing through his veins. The ebb and flow of Castiel's body set Dean in motion -- in and out, he could feel the strength of gentle fingers caressing him in a manner wholly intimate, could feel the silk slide of something hard and undeniably masculine rubbing up against him. It was unbearably gratifying and completely unrepentant.

" _Cas_ ," Dean said, and Cas moved closer, pressed inward until he was rubbing himself against Dean's stomach, and Dean was rubbing himself against--

" _Ohgod_."

Cas slid down the same moment Dean pushed in, and it was then he knew this wasn't their first time -- not even their first time that _day_ \-- because Cas was slick, and ready, and _tight_ , and _holyshit_.

They moved like one body, like one sinuous coil curving up the peak of arousal, tickling the edge of oblivion with a taunting flick of the tongue and the teasing pressure of intimate lips.

They beat and banged and rolled and rode, and at the end of it all, when slickness covered Dean's stomach, and the same warmed Castiel, there was something beyond sex, beyond need that drove both beings to seek each other out once the deed had been done. Limbs wrapped around limbs, the cold easily chased away with shared breaths, and in the end, when sweet unconsciousness took over, Dean found himself enjoying the affectionate aspect of it; basking in the languid, lingering sensation of absolute belonging.  
   
   


**~*~*~*~**

  
   
   
When Dean woke up he was fully dressed, sprawled out on a lumpy motel bed. He groaned when he realized he hadn't been given the opportunity to wake up with--

"Oh, hey Cas," he said, surprised to find the angel sitting on the edge of the bed, also fully clothed.

"Hello, Dean," was the simple, patient reply. Then, in a voice a notch lower, "What were you dreaming about?"

Dean didn't even have to wait for his customary 'this is how we're fucking up your life today' witch-text to lean forward and kiss the curiosity off of Castiel's face.

"You," he said lightly, then leaned in for another kiss when Sam came barging through the door.

"Hey, Dean, I think I've found a way to stop the curse--" Sam, who'd caught an eyeful of something he'd never expected to see, froze in his tracks and stared like a deer caught in the headlights. "Oh, um. Am I interrupting?"

While Dean could have spent the entire day waiting for **HUMILIATION** to come flashing before his eyes, the universe had other plans.

Bobby came wheeling in about the time Dean found enough common sense to dislodge himself from the general vicinity of Castiel's lips.

"It's not a spell focusing on clichés," the older hunter said, cutting straight to the chase without any pointless preamble. "It's an alignment spell that merges planes of existence."

"Huh?" was Dean's eloquent reply.

Sam explained, "It throws you into alternate realities -- something _real_ , just not part of _our_ world. It won't stop until whatever common theme is presented in the other realities comes true in ours."

"We're still workin' on a loophole," Bobby reassured.

Common themes?

As in _angel-banging_ common themes?

Dean ran a hand down the side of his face.

"I think I know how to fix it."  
   
   
   


**\----------  
FIN  
\----------**

  
   
   


This is part of an anonymous fic exchange. If you read this story, please leave feedback for the author!


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